Kingdom Come
by MomentarySetback
Summary: "He is in love with her. But that – that she can't think of right now. Love makes people do stupid things. Love has lost and started wars, made great rulers weak. She simply cannot afford it, and neither can he." / Picks up right after 7x07 and continues with what could happen in season 8. Jon/Dany centric but will involve many characters.
1. Many Things

_Author's Note: My first multi-chapter story for Game of Thrones! This first chapter came out much more fluffy and sexy than I'd expected and not every chapter will be like this, but it will be very Jon/Dany centric as it follows their journey, their budding but complicated relationship, their arrival at Winterfell, attempts to unite the North + other kingdoms, and who knows what else. Comments appreciated. :)_

* * *

She can't take her eyes off him – the heaving of his chest, the contracting of his mottled abdomen as he tries to calm his breathing while waves of pleasure still ripple through his body.

It had been incredible to watch him come undone. The honorable Jon Snow.

She shouldn't have been surprised, really. She was the last dragon, and he a wolf. He'd nipped at her lips and neck, let out little growls of approval as her hips had rocked against his. Fire had burned through their bodies as they rose and fell together.

He was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

Drogo had fucked anything he wanted. She'd grown to love him, it was true, but more out of necessity than of her own free will. Daario was, well, not as good as he thought he was – and he thought he knew everything, which meant he didn't pay much attention. Jon, on the other hand, was like a little boy who'd been given his first sword, eager to please, awaiting each reaction he elicited and learning from her every gasp and move.

And that was just the sex. Nevermind the fact that their relationship hadn't started out physically, but had been born of mutual respect, adoration, trust, and a healthy dose of truth. The way they felt about each other had been brewing for months, mounting with every glance and comment, but neither of them had realized the depth of it until they gave in.

She'd seen the very moment he realized how he felt about her when, amid searching hands, hungry mouths, and thrusting hips, he'd had to stop and take her in. She'd realized then, with a softening of her gaze and emotional tilt of her brow – and he had, too, judging by the way his eyes widened and blinked disbelievingly.

He is in love with her.

But that – that she can't think of right now. Love makes people do stupid things. Love has lost and started wars, made great rulers weak. She simply cannot afford it, and neither can he.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's not polite to stare?"

His voice brings her back to the present, where her legs are still tangled with his, her body is tucked against his side, and her hand rests atop his chest along with her gaze.

Aside from her name – _Dany_ – breathed out once or twice, it's the first thing he's said to her since knocking on her door. It makes the corners of her lips curve upward, the way he can challenge her while still fully submitting and the fact that she respects it.

"No," she answers honestly, an edge of playfulness in her voice as her leg slides against his. "Not all of us were raised by lords and ladies."

"And who were you raised by then?"

"A few men who remained loyal to my family, until they died or left for more profitable causes. Magisters and their attendants." She raises a brow and then her eyes grow distant. "My brother Viserys, mostly."

One day, he wants to know the whole story; he can sense it's not a pleasant one. But for now he simply reaches up, fingertips brushing her forehead as he gently tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

Her eyes soften as they focus on him again, somehow knowing he's aware of the contrast of his actions with how she's been treated in the past.

"I mean no offense against your family, but I don't think I would've liked your brother very much."

"You would've hated him," she assures, turning her cheek into the warmth of his touch.

A sad smile spreads across Jon's lips at her approval. For all he thought he'd missed out on and for all the holes in his past, hers was riddled with just as many gaps and losses, and more than her share of pain.

As his fingers continue their exploration of her skin, skimming over her neck and tracing the curve of her collarbone, he notices the goosebumps forming on her skin and pulls a layer of furs over her. She settles in beside him, the feel of her curves pressing against him nearly stirring something within him again already.

Despite the comfort of her tucked beside him, her head propped against his shoulder, he has to ask before it's too late. "Should I leave?"

She knows why he's asking. That damned honor of his – why he's truthful and harsh and loyal and kind all in one. They shouldn't be here right now, together, he a bastard king and she an ambitious queen. They have reputations to uphold and alliances to protect, wars and people to win. They can't just be two young people with feelings, as they are now; they're bargaining chips, chess pieces.

 _She_ doesn't care – doesn't concern herself with the opinions of others, doesn't believe in a world where people are traded for lands and armies and gold. But that's the world they're in, and their survival might depend on it.

She turns, resting her chin on his chest as her eyes meet his again. "I don't want you to."

She actually looks vulnerable in that moment and it nearly breaks him, her eyes heavy with the weight of someone who hasn't done a thing she truly wants for herself in quite some time, who's sacrificed nearly everything for her people, her dragons, her purpose.

"I don't want to either," he admits, his hand settling at the curve of her waist beneath the furs. He waits, studying her eyes as he hopes for some command or ultimatum.

But she offers him none.

"I said I should've trusted you all along and I meant it." She tilts her head and presses her lips to his chest while intimately holding his gaze. "If you think you should leave, I won't hold it against you."

Jon swallows hard as he threads his fingers through her hair. "I'm right where I need to be."

There are many kinds of honor, and he's hell bent on doing them all justice.

He urges her towards him, but she's already pushed herself further up his chest, her skin gliding against his body as her lips capture his. Unlike the hurried, seeking crash of their lips earlier, this kiss is slower and sweeter – a promise that neither of them may be able to keep.

* * *

She wakes at dawn to the sun sending beams across the horizon, sunlight seeping into her chambers. Her body is cocooned by his, his chest pressed against her back, their legs intertwined. One of his arms holds her close, enveloped by her own arm wrapped around his.

They're a tangle of limbs and bare skin, so she uncoils her body slowly, careful not to wake him. But he stirs, his arm drawing her closer, his legs stretching with hers.

As his eyes flutter open, he becomes all too aware of her curves tucked against his hip, the swells of her breasts pressing against his arm. The dangerous realization that he could get used to this washes over him as he takes in the delicate slope of her shoulder and creamy skin in the daylight. It's both too much and not enough.

"Are you awake?" she asks, running her finger along his arm.

"Mmm," is the only response he can muster, and she smiles at the realization that the brave, strong, and wise Jon Snow might not be a morning person.

She's pretty confident she can change that.

When he wakes enough to smooth his thumb over the curve of her breast, she turns in his arms to drag lazy kisses along the base of his neck, the column of his throat. Last night had been a clash of hips, mouths, and desires, but this morning is slow and deliberate. And while last night he'd seemed determined to make every bit of her feel as incredible as he thought she was, this morning she's in control.

Their lips meet as she pulls her body over his, arching into his hips as she pulls kiss after kiss from his lips. His hands find her hips as a slow rhythm starts between them, and soon her lips abandon his so she can sit astride him. As their eyes lock, he feels the weight of the last twelve hours overwhelm him again – waking up to her soft skin, watching her atop him as the sunlight sets her light eyes on fire, her hair slipping from its neat braids into wild waves.

She can't think about the way he's looking at her right now, so she tilts her hips to take him within her, watching his eyes grow dark with desire as she moves against him. Every muscle in his torso stands out as he rises to meet her, pitching his hips against hers to drive himself deeper.

Her eyes flutter closed contentedly as he shifts his weight to free his hands, gliding them over her curves to rest at the small of her back. But as pleasure coils deep within her, there's a fire in his eyes she can't resist and she meets his gaze, afraid of what she might find but unable to look away. Cupping the back of his neck, she presses her forehead to his as his hips roll with hers, bringing him closer and closer.

She dips to capture his lips, but he changes their angle and all that can escape her mouth is a breath of pleasure at the intensity. He's playing with fire, watching the way her eyes grow heavy as he takes her to the edge, ignoring that falling in love with her is the absolute last thing he should be doing.

/

He slips away when the sun hangs high above the horizon, much later than he should be leaving her quarters. Her cheeks and chest are still flushed, a warm glow bathing her skin that's barely covered in a thin dressing gown.

Fortunately, Missandei appears to have slept well their first night on the ship – but not well enough.

As Missandei turns down the hall to check on her queen, Jon Snow emerges from her door looking a little less kingly than usual. He has all the trappings of a northern ruler, but his breastplate isn't secure, the strap haphazardly hanging unbuckled. Although his hair is pulled back, it's not neatly tied down, curls escaping the sides.

"Your grace," she says with an air of surprise as they pass, still respecting that he's a king, or lord, or something in the North.

"Morning," is all he can offer her – except for a look they share like he's a boy somewhere he's not supposed to be but she doesn't know quite what to make of it.

She knocks on the door and it opens swiftly, a touch of disappointment on her queen's face as she lets her in. Missandei attempts to ignore the flush of Daenerys' usually pale skin, her state of undress this late in the morning…but her hair – that she can't ignore, the neat braids she'd swept into perfect position just yesterday half gone, leaving wild waves in their wake.

"Do you need my help this morning, your grace?" Missandei asks politely, although she knows the answer already.

"My hair could use tending to," Daenerys states, her eyes conveying her appreciation even as she straightens her posture to keep her queenly composure.

As Missandei takes her place behind Daenerys' chair in the corner and works her way through the tangles, an unusually awkward silence passes between them. She's her queen's attendant, that is true…but they're friends, too, and she doesn't know where the line is drawn.

"Forgive me, your grace," she begins, and her queen raises a brow at her in the mirror like she'd been waiting for her to ask. "But what was Jon Snow doing in your quarters?"

A pleased smile creeps its way across Daenerys' lips, the likes of which Missandei has never seen before from her.

"Many things," Daenerys repeats back to her coyly, their eyes meeting as they revel in the secret.


	2. The Bite

_Author's Note: My apologies for the relatively slow update! I've been swamped with work and grad school applications. Hopefully things calm down soon. :)_

* * *

Daenerys studies the map laid out before her in their makeshift council room of the ship, taking in the northern ports and towns, committing them to memory as best she can. She's been through more lands than one should be able to count at this point, and yet she remembers them all: their leaders, their people, their customs and traditions. She's visited the most mythical places and yet the north holds a certain intrigue for her: a cold and hard land with proud people steeped in tradition, a land that has borne the likes of Jon Snow.

Her eyes linger on Winterfell before drifting to Jon, catching him watching her every move. His lips tighten at the recognition of his childhood home, but she averts her eyes back to White Harbor before her entire council becomes privy to their moment.

"We'll need fresh horses," she orders, beginning to plan their arrival now that the days are ticking by.

"And a covered wagon or carriage," Jorah adds pointedly. She knows he means well, but it always sparks her temper, his ubiquitous need to protect her.

"Tell me, Ser Jorah," she begins sharply, meeting his eyes from across the table, "Would a queen hide from her people in a wagon when greeting one of the strongholds of her kingdom?"

"It's not your kingdom yet," Tyrion chimes in. "The roads are dangerous under normal circumstances, and my sister has made sure the kingdoms are in a constant state of unrest. You'd be a sitting duck on a horse."

"And how will they believe I can save the realm and protect them if I can't even protect myself?"

"You _can_ protect yourself," Tyrion insists. "By taking precautions. You can't protect anyone with an arrow through your heart."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed fiercely at that. He _had_ been thinking of her demise quite often. When she thought about it rationally, it was part of his job – and she was grateful for it – but right now she wasn't rational. She was set on the north seeing her ride in proud and strong, ready to fight for their survival, not hiding in a wagon like their weak and feared rulers as of late.

"They're right," Jon says, his voice rough from silence. He moves from the shadows at the corner of the table to stand across from her, her icy gaze landing on him in a way that makes him swallow hard. "If we lose you, we lose everything. We're all as good as dead," he reminds her, his voice breaking at the notion of losing her. "They're not your people yet, and they don't know you're saving them. They think of Targaryens as conquerors and mad kings. One day soon you'll prove them wrong…but you haven't yet. Right now, an archer on a ridge would be a hero for taking out a conqueror."

He holds her gaze as her eyes soften on him, changing. Listening. How quickly this had shifted from taking back her rightful place with fire and blood to saving their people, and it was all because of him. He wasn't one for political harangues, but his words, honest but passionate, always reminded her of what she was fighting for. Now more than ever, she realizes, thinking of the way he'd watched her last night as his lips traveled over her skin, leaving tiny fires in their wake.

And now he was watching her with just as much intensity, only now he was begging her to consider consequences rather than damn them.

"And with all due respect, your grace, you're a bit conspicuous."

It would have been a fact from anyone else, and he'd meant it that way, but as the words left him, as he took in her silvery-blonde hair and bright blue eyes, his voice betrayed his affection for her.

She presses her lips together to keep an amused smile at bay, but she can't help the way her eyes hold his. "Will I be safe outside Winterfell?"

"You will," Jon assures, thankful for the shift back to logistics and planning. "Our guards patrol the paths leading up to the grounds, and we'll send word ahead."

"Good, I'll wait until then to ride," she decides, searching the room for one of them to challenge her compromise.

But none of them do. Greyworm remains collected as always. Missandei averts her eyes knowingly. Varys, Ser Davos, Ser Jorah, and Tyrion look between themselves, from Jon Snow, and to each other again.

Tyrion examines Jon closely, idly tapping his finger on the edge of the table he can barely see over. He'd been infuriated when Jon hadn't emerged from their queen's quarters that first night on the boat. After voicing all his concerns about succession, she'd welcomed a bastard into her bed. He may have been King in the North, but the South still saw him as Ned Stark's bastard, and what would they do with that?

But now he'd seen. Tyrion had tried to reason with her, had tried to remind her to be different, but she wouldn't listen to him. After being tricked and traded, lied to and used, she didn't seem to be able to trust or respect anyone fully, not even her Hand. Until Jon Snow.

 _You have to find a way to make her listen,_ Varys had said.

Well, he just had.

* * *

When his knock comes tonight, she's pensively staring out the windows of her chambers.

"Come in," Daenerys says, her hand moving to the last braid still twisted through her hair. As her fingers begin to slip the strands free, she meets his eyes and smiles. "Do you know where we are?" Her eyes travel back to the window, where miles and miles away there are lights flickering in the distance. She looks young, with her hair flowing down in free waves and her eyes alight from the glow of fire, candles, the moon, and curiosity.

It's the first night she hasn't let him in the door, the first night their lips haven't met before they've exchanged words. There are no seeking hands pulling every buckle she can find free after a day of repressed affection, and he's not pushing her against the wood of the door or carrying her to her bed of furs yet.

He doesn't want to think about what it means, this comfort that's developed between them like they have all the time in the world when they certainly don't.

"Aye, we're well into The Bite now," he says as he strolls up beside her, taking in the distant lights.

Her brows furrow as she frees the last strands of her hair. "The Bite?"

An amused smile graces his lips. "It's the name of the bay – named for the chill as you enter, I always figured," he explains, nodding to her fire and the white furs wrapped round her body. "White Harbor is the northeastern port. We should be there by morning as long as the winds are kind."

She meets his eyes knowingly and watches him swallow hard. With a world of troubles before them and behind them, this voyage has felt like a dream. They're safe here, with the ocean rocking them, surrounded by people who believe in their cause. There's no political strife here, no negotiations to make or alliances to protect. The Night King is a distant enemy, with a wall and many miles between them.

They plan and prepare during the day, but the nights are theirs: for warm skin and hungry mouths, for heated glances and whispered names, for things they've never felt before and words they cannot say.

Here, it feels like the world is just beginning instead of ending.

She refuses to let that change, refuses to rush tonight. Taking his hand, she leads him to the cozy reading nook at the corner of her room, where they're further from the fire but still have a view of the changing landscape outside. He follows her lead, pausing to unbuckle the stiff gambeson from his chest before joining her. Once he does, she tucks herself against his side, enveloping him in warmth as she shares her thick furs.

"And what's over there?" she asks, nodding toward the flickering lights on land across the water. They can just barely make out the silhouette of jagged peaks agains the moonlight now.

"Littlesister," Jon says, looking off into the dark. His hand slips around her waist, settling at the already familiar curve of her hip. "One of the three islands that make up the Three Sisters, ruled by House Sunderland. Some say Sistermen have webbed feet and hands from living by the sea for so long."

She gives him a look, raising her brows. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Maester Luwin, my family's maester." He hasn't thought of him in a while, and his eyes grow distant as he remembers his home – not the broken, ramshackle Winterfell he'd left in Sansa's hands, but the Winterfell he grew up in, thriving and strong with maesters and lords. Where his father ruled swiftly and justly, where he taught Arya how to hold a sword when no one was looking, where Bran climbed and direwolves roamed.

As though following his thoughts, she asks, "What was it like?" At the look he gives her, she adds, "Growing up in Winterfell with your family?" It intrigued her – this notion of being exactly where you're supposed to be, where your blood runs in others' veins.

"You're full of questions tonight."

"And I trust you're full of answers," she says, exercising a bit of her authority as she looks up at him expectantly.

He's in no position to deny her, not that he minds.

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to answer that question," he replies honestly. "My lord father's wife despised me and never let me forget it, and I've no idea who my mother is…or was." She can see how it weighs on him, how his eyes grow dark at the gap in his past. "But it wasn't so bad. I learned from my father's banner men, sparred with my half-brothers, taught my sister how to shoot a bow…"

"Women fight in the North?" she asks hopefully.

Jon lets out the closest thing to a laugh she'd ever heard from him. "No, but that didn't matter much to Arya."

Suddenly she's very much looking forward to meeting Arya Stark, she realizes with a wistful smile. And then she tries to think of anywhere that felt like home to her: Pentos, the Dothraki camps, Meereen. None of them had come close. None of them had been her Winterfell.

"When I was in the Free Cities, all I ever wanted was to come home and live with my family in peace," Daenerys confesses with a slight hitch of emotion in her voice. "But I kept forgetting we had no family left to come home to."

Jon brushes a hand over her cheek to tuck waves of silvery blonde hair behind her ear, then circles his fingertips down to her chin. He tilts her chin upward, meeting her pained eyes with his own.

"It's not too late. Maybe you will," he tells her so confidently she almost has hope. "You can create a safer kingdom for your children, and their children's children."

She almost believes it when he says it, and a sad smile graces her lips as she holds his eyes.

Maybe she will bear another child one day. Maybe they can defeat the Night King. Maybe she can live in peace. Maybe she can bring hope and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms. Maybe these things are possible with him. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Placing her hands on his chest, her lips find his and her body follows suit, draping a leg over him until she's fully in his lap, straddling his hips. She takes his top lip between her own, running her hand through the curls at the nape of his neck as she presses her body against his.

The furs slip from her shoulders and between slow, lingering kisses, his eyes flutter back open at the glimpse of her skin he catches. He pauses, resting his forehead against her chin to take in what little she's draped in beneath the winter cloak. The thin slip clings to her curves, the light, translucent material doing little to conceal the swells of her breasts or the arch of her hip. Little ties criss-cross over her chest, and he can tell that pulling just one will have her skin revealed to him in an instant.

"Seven hells, what are you trying to do to me?" He groans as his lips find her neck, trailing down over skin and nipping at her throat as she rocks her hips against his.

"Take off your clothes," she whispers – an answer and a command.


	3. White Knife

_Author's Note: The bad news is this took a little while to finish, somewhat because of my schedule but also because I went off plan and had to go back, edit, and reorganize a bit. The good news is I have a bit of the next one already written. :) I hope that you all enjoy. Is it time for season 8 yet?!_

* * *

After reaching White Harbor, they ride for a day before meeting the Unsullied and setting up camp.

She keeps peeking through the door of her tent, letting in the cold for a glimpse of the land.

Everything is white. The fields, the hills, the trees – all covered in a thick but dry snow. The cloudy sky reflects it, too, and though it's been dark for hours, it still feels like twilight.

She'd seen snow beyond the wall from atop Drogon's back, but that was completely different. That was a distant and dangerous land, and she hadn't had much time to admire the scenery. She can actually take it in now, and it's both beautiful and chilling. The winds howl along with the wolves, and the cold feels like it's trying to cut right down to her bones.

She seals the flaps of her tent once more and moves closer to the brazier. She's been counting on a certain northerner to keep her warm beneath layers of furs tonight, but as the moon rises higher in the night sky, doubt creeps in and her patience wanes.

There's much for him to do here. He knows the land better than anyone, and he and Davos are the most familiar with the ins and outs of organizing a winter camp. Despite the supposed truce, they're not trusting Cersei Lannister, and the northern houses don't know to trust her army yet. With much to defend against, Jon had helped her guards set up patrol stations at every possible point of entry.

But that was hours ago. And as the night presses on, her hope dwindles and her frustration flares.

She'd grown use to him. She knew it was dangerous when she said it, and yet they'd continued to grow closer. He'd worked his way into her heart with all his honesty and bravery and honor. His dark eyes and the rasp of emotion in his voice when he spoke to her hadn't hurt, either.

She'd rationalized with herself that it was just attraction, but it was growing harder to hide behind the guise of desire. Not when he spoke of her family with such reverence and hope. Not when she woke in his arms. Not when he stopped in the throes of passion to meet her eyes and consider the magnitude of their actions, of his feelings for her. Not when he made her breath catch as often as he did.

And not now, especially, when the first night he hadn't shown up at her door had her aching for his touch and questioning everything.

The more she thought about it, the hotter her temper grew. Before she can comprehend her actions, she's wrapped two more layers of furs over her thick cloak, slipped on warm, dry boots, and stepped into the cold.

She's all too aware of both the chill on her cheeks and the several Unsullied guards that follow her. Although she'd sent Grey Worm to Missandei long ago, several guards remained just outside her tent under his orders – a reminder that her brief reprieve at sea from people wanting to kill her is over. A reminder that things have changed.

She finds him warm and alone in his tent, sitting by his own brazier and meticulously sharpening a dagger – a sight that further ignites her temper after her chilling walk through the camp.

He rises when she enters, giving up the rhythm of the methodical grind of stone over metal, and swallows hard at the sight of her set jaw and fiery eyes.

"You shouldn't be out in this," he says, taking in the purple of her lips, the pallor of her normally rose-tinted cheeks.

She raises her brows, challenging him as she pulls back the hood of her cloak. "I grew tired of waiting." Her words have a bit of a bite, but they don't come out nearly as cold as she'd originally intended them. To Jon Snow, they're more of an invitation, and his eyes soften as he realizes something had been missing from her evening, too. That she'd been missing him.

It's the first night they've been apart in weeks, and although they hadn't spoken a word about what would happen next or what the hell it was they were doing, he assumed they both knew things would be different in the open. They had a war to win, and many people to win over before and after. First the north, then the rest of the seven. And who knew what they would have to agree to then, what she would have to agree to…

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, setting aside the dagger with the rest of his weapons and armor. "We knew it would be different here. You have people to answer to."

"I don't care."

"Rumors can destroy a ruler," he advises, but for once she doesn't want his counsel.

"You think I care what people think?" she asks, stepping towards him.

"No," he says honestly. "But you should. You'll have to win people over. You'll have the north soon, but you'll need the support of the south. And I can guarantee you that any perceived relationship with me isn't going to help you with that."

"I don't want to hide or win anyone over with lies," she tells him, searching his eyes for understanding but only finding guilt and pain. "You said it yourself… When enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything."

He respects her honesty just as much as she respects his, and yet he can't let her risk everything for him. "Whatever is going on between us," he begins, looking from the ground at his feet and back into her eyes. He can't put it into words. "It's dangerous. For everyone. You may have to marry for an alliance, and you shouldn't be seen with a northern bastard."

"I don't want to marry anyone else." The words fire from her lips without thought, without her understanding the meaning. Anyone other than him, or anyone again at all? There had been a time she'd told Daario she wasn't free to do what she wanted, a time when she'd promised herself to a powerful house for a political alliance. Maybe she had been right, but where had that gotten her? She's tired of it, and she can't lie to him.

She averts her eyes downward as she swallows down the outburst, then takes in a steadying breath. "And that's not who you are anymore," she insists, stepping close enough to touch, her light eyes imploring him. "You're a king. Your people chose you to lead them."

"I was a king," he corrects, although there's no blame or remorse in his voice – only a tinge of relief. His voice has gone softer and rougher with her proximity, anxious fingers at bay at his sides.

"Your people still look to you. Things are expected of you." Her voice has gone low, too, and she nearly whispers, "What do you want?"

No one has ever asked him that.

He looks into her eyes, his chest heaving with self-restraint until he can't resist her any longer. His lips crash into hers, sending her backward with such force that her balance tips, but his arms have wrapped round her waist to pull her close. Instinctively grabbing the chest strap of his soft armor, she urges him down to her, their lips gliding against one another as her body arches into his. Their mouths settle into a slow press-and-slide, like he's trying to put to memory the feel of her lips beneath his. When the warmth of her tongue greets him, he has to pull back before he's completely undone. He rests his forehead against hers, her eyes searching his.

She doesn't know if that was an answer or simply his breaking point.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he breathes out, studying the determination in her eyes.

"What if it did?"

He pulls away from her and she threads her fingers with his, pressing their palms together and bringing him back. She wants to hear him say it: that he wants her, that he will put up with this life of queens and kings and rule for her. And yet she knows he won't say it. He's too good, too convinced he's doing the right thing.

"I don't know," he says honestly, brows knitting together in thought. "I never thought about it. First I knew I'd never have any choice, then I was a man of the night's watch, and lately I haven't known whether there would be a life left to live." He meets her eyes, the brevity of their situation in his gaze, in the scar that crosses his brow and cheek.

"I've thought about it almost every single day," she tells him, her voice almost breaking with emotion. "I want a world where women and girls aren't traded for lands and titles. Where women aren't treated like objects and raped by their husbands. Where people can marry for love and not for political gain."

"It sounds like a wonderful place," he agrees sadly. "But it's not the world we live in."

"Then I'll make it so."

"I hope you do," he says sincerely, both as someone hoping for a better world than the shit one they've been living in, and as a man falling hopelessly for someone he should never be with. And yet he can't abandon what he knows or give up the honest, truthful counsel he's given her since the day they met. "But think of what you'll have to do to get there."

She tilts her chin up, keeping her confidence and poise despite how much she wants to tell him he's wrong, despite her doubts. Jon Snow has never led her astray, but when will it stop if not with her?

She knows she's not changing his mind tonight. So she simply pulls him closer, her free hand coming to rest against his cheek. "Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, Your Grace," he says, the formality feeling forced but necessary within the intimacy of his tent. And then he watches her leave, his body practically trembling with restraint.


	4. North

_Author's Note: My apologies for how long it's taken me to update! Truth is, I have so many ideas for this and ended up getting some of them out of order, which took some reorganizing and led to some serious writer's block. This is why I should use outlines. :P Huge thanks to my friend Jen for helping me sort out the sequence. I promise the next update will be quicker and less filler-y! It's one I've had written for a while and I have a holiday break ahead. :)_

* * *

She absolutely loathes traveling this way: pent up in a wagon, no wind rushing through her hair or breeze blustering across her cheeks. Instead, she's bundled up inside like some stuffy queen who's barely left court all her life when in fact she'd been the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, an accomplished rider, and a leader who had taken her people throughout the Free Cities as well as across the sea. But currently she sits all day while others ride, able to take in the view and be free from the confines of tents or wagons most of their day while she remains here.

Daenerys slides open a wooden partition, letting in the cold for a small view of the land: frost-covered, with bits of dark green and brown still peeking through below a grey sky. She can see the Dothraki ahead, making their way along a curve, and her eyes drift ahead where she knows Jon rides before them. But she can't see anything past a sea of braids, furs, and pelts.

She gives up at Tyrion's "knock, knock" outside her door.

"Come in," she practically sighs out, watching as he pulls himself up into the carriage.

"Thought I'd give my legs a break from the ride." He takes a seat across from her and stretches his legs out, grimacing slightly at a sore spot.

"I'll trade you," she quips, although the thought of his empty horse just outside is actually rather tempting to her at the moment.

"Your travel accommodations seem quite sufficient," he remarks, taking in the furs and pillows meant to make her feel more comfortable and less trapped for her own safety. "And certainly much warmer," he adds, shaking his hands out as they tingle with warmth. "Everyone's cloaked in furs. You can hardly tell a Dothraki from an Unsullied."

She finally smiles slightly at that. Although it's an innocent comment, it fills her with pride: the union of powerful troops from different parts of the world under her command, the bringing of foreign armies from Essos all the way to the northern lands of Westeros. No one had done it before. Then again, everyone else just cared about killing anything different from them rather than bringing people together.

"So," Tyrion begins, his obvious hesitation putting her on edge. "Seeing as we're all potentially marching toward impending doom, I think it's necessary we broach a certain topic we've been avoiding."

She questions him with her eyes, brows knitting together.

"The succession, your grace."

Her expression hardens, her eyes shutting him out without a word. Her gaze drifts toward the small window again, where outside much bigger, more immediate concerns await.

"I told you we'd talk about it once I sit on the throne."

"Yes." He remembers well. "But–"

"I don't want to talk about it now."

"Well, you seem be _discussing_ it quite freely with Jon Snow."

Her eyes target his, suddenly large and full of fire, raging with the temper that seems to always simmer just beneath her collected demeanor.

"That's none of your concern," she insists.

"I'm your Hand," he reminds her, holding her gaze. "Everything you do is my concern."

Daenerys shakes her head, dismissing his comments even as they take root in her conscience. They play this game, the two of them, where she's the devil's advocate for his strategic concerns, and he tempers her instincts and pride when she follows them too blindly. She'd never keep him beside her if she didn't value his counsel, and yet they're always at odds.

"Well, you don't have to concern yourself with Jon Snow anymore," she says sharply – sadly, too, and she regretfully watches the realization wash over Tyrion. She cares for Jon. She might even love him. "Apparently we're putting everyone at risk. Apparently I may have to marry for an alliance."

Tyrion swallows hard. He knew he liked Jon Snow, and he should be relieved. He'd been infuriated when Jon hadn't emerged from their queen's quarters that first night on the boat. After voicing all his concerns about succession, she'd welcomed a bastard into her bed. He may have been King in the North, but the South still saw him as Ned Stark's bastard, and what would they do with that?

And yet the knowledge of two more people torn apart by this world hits him harder than he cares to admit. Still, he admits, "He's not wrong."

"He's not right either," she tells him, her voice trembling with emotion more than she would like. "I'll never trade myself for an alliance. I can't think of a single good thing that has ever come from a marriage meant to ally opposing forces. And if the south doesn't trust us after we save them from the Army of the Dead, a marriage certainly isn't going to solve our problems."

"No," he agrees, choosing his next words carefully. "But sometimes it's a start. A peace offering, a truce."

"A peace offering," she scoffs. "Do you think the mothers and fathers of Westeros want to see their daughters traded as peace offerings? Raped by husbands who see them as political tools to produce heirs?" Her eyes grow determined yet distant, and for once Tyrion doesn't seem to have a rebuke – not after what he assumes she's been through, not when she's so determined to build a better world than the one that has chewed him up and spit him out. "I told you I wanted to break the wheel and I meant it. How I can I promise people I'm building a better world for them if I don't start with myself?"

She waits for her words to sink in, watching the way Tyrion presses his fingers and palms together in thought.

When he speaks again, he's quieter. Gentler. "What will you do, then? What of your succession?" He hesitantly meets her eyes again. "What of Jon Snow?"

"I don't know," she admits, taking a deep breath and closing herself off again at the mention of him. "We have a war to win first. Who knows what the world will be like after… And what does Jon Snow have to do with my succession?" She looks out the window again, discreetly searching for him in vain amid the thousands of riders before her. "I told you, I don't think I can have children."

Tyrion doesn't miss the extra syllables and doubt – _hope?_ – that have made their way into that statement. "You don't _think_ you can or you can't?"

"I can't," she says, although she misses a beat and lets her eyes drift toward the horizon. Damn him for making her question everything she knows, for giving her hope when there's none to be had in this cold, barren place. "I'm not meant to bear a living child."

Tyrion presses his lips together, rolling them inward impatiently. "Okay. That's helpful." All this talk of succession and heirs and not being able to have children, and her quantifying proof seems based in some…prophecy? His strategic mind goes to the most logical but worrisome place: a bastard of a bastard, the risk of a child but not an heir. "In that case, if Jon Snow…becomes a concern again, might I make a suggestion?"

No, she thinks, but raises a curious brow instead.

"Marry him."

* * *

Jon can feel it coming, can smell it in the icy air. He's surprised it hasn't happened yet. They're well into the northern lands now. The skies have been grey for days, the previous snow dirt-ridden and hard beneath their feet. It's only a matter of time before the clouds let loose, covering their tents and clothes in a fresh layer of snow for the first time since they've made landfall.

Urging his horse forward with a light touch of his heels, he surveys the abandoned tower and crumbling walls of the empty grounds. When his father had been Warden of the North, this had been a modest stronghold, home to one of the Karstarks' cousins. They'd abandoned it when they'd abandoned his family, and despite the crumbling walls, the grounds and the field beyond are a perfect stopping point for their troops. There are stables for the horses, walls for protection, and a large field for camp, all surrounded by small mountain ridges for coverage and adequate escape routes.

He watches the camp come to life before him – Dothraki scouts on the ridges, Unsullied surrounding the grounds, tents popping up in the fields, and dragons soaring overhead. The rest of their party still makes its way through the deep ravine that leads down to where he stands. The thundering of a horse's hooves on the frozen ground steals his attention and he turns, a cloaked rider leaning forward on a black mare, gracefully and seamlessly moving with the rhythm of the horse's rocking gait.

He knows who it is before she pulls up next to him, before a white-blonde curl escapes her dark furs, before she's smirking as she slows her horse into a trot around him.

"You're not a very good listener, are you?" he chides her, though his eyes are alight with amusement.

"No," she says simply as she pulls up next to him, "but I wouldn't be here if I were." She turns to survey the stream of their party behind her, the rest of the Dothraki watching her respectfully as they make their way into the camp. "It's important that the Dothraki see me, anyhow. They won't follow a leader who doesn't ride and fight alongside them."

"It's important that you're alive," he reminds her.

"It is," she agrees, "but if you've done your job well, that shouldn't be a problem, should it?" She lets her gaze drift toward the ridges around them, where scouts and guards stand watch, before they stray back to him. She pointedly sizes him up on his horse, drawing her eyes from his legs to his torso, where she knows that perfectly sculpted muscles rise and fall with every breath that fills his lungs. "I trust you."

Their eyes lock and he swallows hard at the intensity of their gaze.

He's been avoiding her. This is why. Every glance, every word spoken between them has the power to unravel either one of them at any given time. And right now it's him, watching her on horseback beside him, wild and free as the creatures flying overhead, white-blonde hair tumbling from her cloak and light eyes daring his.

And then it finally begins: a few small flakes slowly landing on her shoulders, a few disappearing into her hair, a large, a delicate flake falling onto the bridge of her nose.

She looks up, smiling at her first real snowfall, and he realizes he never thought about how much she'd fit in here. With her light skin, white-blonde hair, and icy eyes, she'd blend in with the landscape of his home if not for the bit of rose in her cheeks, her reddish pink lips, the fire that burns beneath her skin.

She catches him staring then, the hints of a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Welcome to the north," he says as he watches the snow fall around her, flakes clinging to the lashes that line her striking eyes. "It suits you."


End file.
